In the beginning, it became quickly apparent that he was out of his element. With only a brother in his sibling bank and a frat house full of "brothers" beyond that, girls were still (and remain), quite a mystery to the man. Asking him to dress a baby for an outing insured a onesie and possibly some pants. Forget matching anything beyond what I had Garanimaled together in the dresser for his benefit. Frilly diaper covers, hair clips, tights? Not a chance. And he had a severe aversion to those elastic headbands things - saying they made babies look like they just had brain surgery.

Not that he needed a fashion lobotomy.

On the contrary, this is a man straight from the covers of GQ (although like any man, his underwear is air conditioned and held together by little more than dryer static.) He enjoys shopping for himself, cuts a stunning figure in a suit and tie and quite frankly, still turns my head and the heads of anyone we happen to pass.

As the years have passed and the girls have grown beyond Barney and frilly pants, he has gamely tried to keep up. More out of survival than actual interest, he has learned lyrics to virtually every NSYNC song, sat through A-Teens concerts, knew when Britney Spears was beginning to fade from the radar and when Hillary Duff was starting to emerge, and can actually tell you the plotlines on the soap opera Passions.

He has attended tea parties, kept up with which boys are on the Hot List at school, come back to school shopping every year (his role? Sherpa), can tell you exactly what colors Clay Aiken's hair was in every episode of American Idol 2, knows all the characters on The Lizzie McGuire Show, and that while two items of clothing may be blue, they may not match because of the shade. He has come (or been dragged) a long way.

And while any impending travel I may have to do strikes terror into the hearts and hair follicles of my daughters, he has mastered an acceptable ponytail.

It is in this hair arena that he flounders the most. His is brown. Normal. Low maintenance. Nothing that thirty seconds with a brush and a blow dryer can't accomplish. He even lets me cut it. No candy striped barber pole visits for him. So, while he oohs and aahhhs appropriately over each daughter as they emerge from 20 minutes of being dried and coifed by Mama Sassoon, he doesn't "get" paying that much attention to something that just grows like a weed from your head. (Personally, I don't even know what color actually grows out of mine. Ask me and this week I would say Creme Brulee #31 - that's what the box says.)

But never let it be said that old dogs cannot learn new tricks.

He happened to come into the bathroom just as I was finishing applying highlights to my oldest daughter's hair. And since the kit provides enough creme to highlight not only Lady Godiva's flowing locks, but her horse as well, I jokingly waved it at him and asked if he wanted some.

In a moment right out of Queer Eye For The Straight Guy, he knelt down and let me start applying it.

Fifteen minutes later, he had gorgeous copper highlights in his once sober brown locks. The girls stood around him cheering, he preened ever so slightly in the mirror and simply shrugged his shoulders.

As I stood by, incredulous, but admiring, I couldn't help but wonder...what's next? New underwear?!?

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